


At the Mercy

by saltandlimes



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, M/M, cue the tears, gratuitious descriptions of Hux's daily routine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:44:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7642882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/pseuds/saltandlimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Caf and cigarettes and stims, and it's stunning that Hux isn't burning up, a sparking mess of chemical induced brightness.</i> </p><p>Hux has a problem. Kylo deals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this [tfa_kink](https://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/4613.html?thread=11200773#cmt11200773) prompt
>
>> Hux is on a regimen of pills. Stimulants wake him up and keep him organized, but put his nerves on edge. Sedatives at night put him to sleep but make him nauseous and grumpy. Not to mention the vitamin supplements, because between the stimulants and the nausea he can barely get the blandest food down.
>> 
>> Kylo Ren knows Hux is fragile. With everything he's putting his mind through, it would take very little to send him over the edge of a nervous breakdown. 

Wake up. Fumble over the side of the bed for the bottle. Shake two pills into his hand and dry swallow them. Hux breathes deep through his nose, throat dry, mouth stinking and cottony. He rolls to his feet, stumbles in a daze to the fresher door. The floor seems to rock a little underneath him, but that's not really... well, it should be strange, but at this point, Hux knows a little thing like the floor tilting uncontrollably under his feet is to be expected. 

He mashes a hand against the controls for the sonic shower, steps inside to feel the blast cleaning him, remaking him. Then he's out again, rinsing his face, scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing. His cheekbones feel a little raw under his fingertips. He fumbles for the toothbrush, barely cracking his eyes open to glare in the mirror. Then he's shoving it into his mouth, trying to wipe away the taste of spit, and night, and old cigarettes. 

He spits. 

And the pills are starting to kick in, straightening his spine, fizzing through him. There are little slithering sparks playing at the edges of his vision, but he squeezes his eyes shut, breathes through them until he can feel them retreat. Then he's prying his eyes back open, rubbing furiously at the dark circles that stare out of the mirror at him.

They don't go away. 

But that's fine, alright, ok. Because Hux doesn't care. They don't matter. Not if he's up, functioning, ready for his shift on the bridge. He pulls out the comb, wets his hair down. And he's parting it, centering the comb. And it won't stay in place. 

It won't.

And for a moment, Hux can't understand why. He's been parting his hair in the same place, in the same way, for years. Diagonally, from the center. But for some reason, the line keeps wobbling back and forth. He stares in the mirror. His hand shakes. Hux grabs his own wrist, clenches tight till the trembling subsides. 

Then he parts his hair. 

***

He chokes down half of a protein shake on his way to the bridge. The sludge coats his mouth, makes him want to gag. He pitches the rest into a trash chute half way up the long corridor from the lifts to the bridge, returns the salute of a passing lieutenant. 

He's scrubbing his tongue furiously against his teeth when he steps onto the bridge, and he has to almost physically restrain himself from gulping down the caf that Unamo presses into his hands.

“Status report!” He barks out, and Thannison reads off an interminable list of things that eventually can be summed up as: nothing happened while you were asleep, Sir. Hux huffs through his nostrils when Thannison finishes, but says nothing, just nods. It isn't worth it, and he can feel the caf swirling warm in his belly, filling him with motes of bright life. 

***

In the middle of the morning, Hux nods to Major Tizzin, hands off the con to him. And he slips out the door, heels tip-tapping on the floor in a familiar rhythm. Snick-slap goes the door on his ready room, and then he's alone. 

Hux fumbles a little as he pulls the lighter out of his pocket. Then he's tugging out a cigarette, relaxing into the hiss of the tabac catching. And he sinks down against the door, legs bending of their own accord. He curls them to him, cradles one arm around his knees as he blows smoke up to the vents. It's thick in his mouth, cottony against the back of his throat. But he can feel it fizzing through his veins, lighting them back up. 

He taps his fingers in a frantic rhythm against his knee, flicks ash onto the deck for the droids to sweep away. Twitches his shoulders in his uniform. And all too soon, the cigarette is gone, and he's a curled hump on his own floor. He heaves a breath, stands. It's buzzing through him, too much brightness on his almost empty stomach. 

The drawers to Hux's desk are keyed to his fingerprint, and he bounces his fingers on the top of the desk for a few seconds to clear out some of their energy before pressing his thumb to the reader. Even so, it takes two tries before he can get the damn thing to accept the input and the drawer to spring open. Then he's reaching inside, pulling out a water bottle and a few vitamin pills. They taste ashy as he swallows them down, clogging his throat. 

Then he's pulling out his datapad, settling in for another round of reallocations. Logistics may be his least favorite part of this job, with their mindless tedium. Yet they need to be done, just as much as the personnel reviews, the interminable reports from the rest of the fleet. Each and every day, and endless line of signatures marching across the screen. 

But it will help. It has to. 

***

His eyes have started to blur by the time the chrono next to his screen goes off. He pulls out another nutrition shake, chokes down a whole three quarters this time, feels his stomach twist in protest. Bile rises in his throat and he swallows convulsively. 

Slowly, slowly the nausea retreats as he hunches over his desk, spine curved, fingers clenched tight on the edge. He breathes heavily through his nose, feels a prickle of sweat on his forehead. And he's fumbling for the lighter again, pulling out a cigarette. 

The first drag is nothing, but then it floods through him, light flowing through his veins and cleaning them out. His stomach flutters again, but it's worth it. He exhales hard. And he tries to save the cigarette, to take slow pulls, but he can't. No sooner has he blown smoke out in little stuttering puffs, than he's wrapping his lips around the end again, sucking almost desperately. 

He feels heat on his fingertips. Almost done. 

When he ducks into the fresher, there's color high on his cheeks, but his face is pale. He scrubs a hand across his forehead, wipes away the sweat still beaded at his brow. Washes his hands, cleans away the smell of smoke and need. 

***

When Hux finally walks off the bridge at the end of his shift, he stumbles a little. And then there's a hand clamping around his arm, black gloved and huge. He glances up – Ren, of course. He nods. Ren nods back, drops his arm. 

When they get to the officer's mess, it's almost deserted. Hux ducks into the fresher, fishes in his pocket. Then he's pulling up his jacket, baring his stomach to the white light filtering from the ceiling. The antiemetic is a glaring green color as he rips open the packet holding it, presses the patch to the curve of his belly. He drags his jacket back into place, straightens the collar with twitching fingers. Pats at his hair. 

Ren is sitting at a table with Tizzin and Mitaka, the lieutenant as far from Ren as it's possible to be without seeming rude. Hux stalks over, ignores the wrinkle of the patch, the pull against his skin as he sits down. And an orderly rushes over to place a plate in front of him. Some sort of grey slop – he thinks it might be stew, and a few green vegetables. 

He grimaces at the plate. Even without the roiling in his gut, this would be unappetizing. The soup is thick, almost glutinous as he spoons some into his mouth. And he keeps his face straight as he swallows, even as Ren gives him a knowing look. It doesn't do for him to show his distaste. Food is standard on Finalizer, and if this is good enough for the stormtroopers, it's good enough for him. 

***

Hours later, and he's back in his quarters, pouring over endless reports and trying to sketch out the strategy for the next few months. His chrono beeps at him again. And this time Hux sighs, straightens stiffly from behind his desk. His hips creak as he makes his way to his bedroom, and he thinks absently about maybe getting to the gym some day. He should make the time for it, he knows. 

He strips off his uniform, pulls off an undershirt damp with sweat. Trousers, underclothes, they all go into the laundry chute. And he pads to the fresher, naked. Runs a slow hand up his side to scrub at his face. Pokes at the curve of his stomach, at the way his hipbones stick out, too sharp. Drags careful fingers over the bump-bump-bump of his ribs. 

The cup on the edge of the sink fills quickly, and Hux pulls open the cabinet to fish out another bottle. He shakes it, rattle loud in the silence of the fresher. And he's getting low, going to have to go find more soon. He sighs, gulps down water and a single round tablet.

His sheets are cold, a little rough as he slips beneath them. And he lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the pull of artificial oblivion. Tomorrow will be the same. Rinse and repeat. One hand rests on the rough spot on his stomach, too much adhesive from too many patches. Rinse and repeat. 

***

When Kylo realizes what's going on, his first thought is a strange sort of embarrassment that he's never noticed before. They've been fucking for months, and it's taken till now for him to notice anything wrong. 

And it's not really surprising. Hux is so careful. Pulls Kylo in to an abandoned room, pushes him to his knees, comes shivering and shaking and then sends Kylo on his way. Strokes a hand through Kylo's hair, licks at his lips, then hands the helmet to him with a murmured word about work. 

Even when they eventually make their way to Hux's quarters, Hux always sends him away – _I can't sleep with you here, Kylo_ – and Kylo goes without protest. Hux is a private man, and they're just... well... this isn't something that means anything. Just convenient, just fucking. 

And it's definitely an accident, when he finds out. Hux has the day off, and it's later than they usually meet. And Hux is curled against him, boneless, head against Kylo's arm. And somehow, somehow, his breathing slows, relaxes before he can tell Kylo to leave. Kylo knows he should, should make his way out, lay Hux down on the pillows and find his own bed. But he can't. Not with Hux's face slack and innocent in sleep. Not when he wants to smooth away the dark shadows under Hux's eyes, still there even as Hux breathes slowly against him. 

So he stays. 

And wakes early, automatically, as the lights that simulate the rise of the sun start to activate. Hux is still asleep, curled next to him, a little bit of something crusted at one corner of his lips. Kylo rolls onto his side, careful, and watches as Hux breathes in the rhythm of dreams. 

When Hux wakes, Kylo starts to reach over, pull him closer. But Hux rolls onto his side, fumbles with something on the table. And Kylo can see him shake pills into his hand, gulp them down. It's only then that Hux opens his eye in narrowed slits. When he catches a glimpse of Kylo he rears backward, scuttles across the bed a little before Kylo catches him with a heavy hand on his shoulder. 

“What are you still doing here?” Hux's voice cracks with sleep.

“You didn't tell me to leave.” Kylo glances over to the bottle still on the table next to the bed. “What are those, Hux? Are you alright?” Hux glares. 

“I'm fine, and it's none of your fucking business, Kylo.” He rolls out of the bed, shambles to the fresher. And Kylo stalks after him.

“Are you sure? You don't look fine.” And, truth to be told, Hux looks a mess. Skin ashy, face drawn. They always fuck with the lights low, and now, in this automatically harsh daylight, Kylo runs his eyes down Hux's too-thin frame. His fingers are bird-delicate, fluttering as he wraps them around his cock to take a piss. There's a square of irritated skin on his stomach, a line of bruises up his arm. And Kylo must have made those, can see the outline of his own fingers, but he can't remember grabbing Hux hard enough to bruise. 

Hux turns to him, and Kylo can see where his ribs stand out over a stomach flabby from inactivity. He wants to trace the curves of Hux's hips, to wipe away the tiny cut at the edge of his hip, dig his fingers into the tiny moments of softness that hide on Hux's delicate slimness. 

“What are you staring at?” Kylo starts. Hux is glaring at him, a toothbrush waving in one of his hands. His eyes are open all the way now, no longer lidded and sleep-soft. Kylo shrugs. Nothing. Nothing that Hux would understand. 

***

After that, he watches. And Hux seems to have given up kicking him out, after the first time that Kylo simply doesn't leave. Instead, he shrugs, disappears into the fresher, comes back and lies down next to Kylo, lets Kylo pull him over, wrap his arms tight around Hux's shoulders. 

And every morning, he wakes to the alarm, rolls over, grabs those pills. And Kylo sneaks a glance at the bottle one day when Hux busies himself in the fresher. Stims. Uppers, and that's almost funny. Caf and cigarettes and stims, and it's stunning that Hux isn't burning up, a sparking mess of chemical induced brightness. 

And Kylo pets a finger across Hux's cheek when he comes out of the fresher, kisses the place on his cheek where a single freckle is darker than the rest. And wonders what to do. 

***

When he walks in on Hux slapping a patch to that spot on his stomach, he wonders what to do. Because he's fingered over that spot late at night, traced questing hands across it and mapped its edges. Antiemetic, he can recognize it from the color. And Hux glares at him, shoes him out of the fresher with a trembling hand. 

And when Kylo kisses him later, slips his tongue inside Hux's narrow lips, he fancies he can taste the edge of bile. 

***

He needs a bandage. He's nicked his face shaving in front of Hux's mirror, and he pulls open the fresher cabinet to find something to cover over the tiny bleeding mark. But he can't find anything. 

It's not because the cabinet is bare. 

No, a veritable host of bottle sit inside. Some of them are standard usage – bacta lurks in one corner, a cluster of tonics and cleansers in another. But there are also a few unmarked vials, full up with a viscous pink liquid. Four bottles of stims, all huddled together like quite children. And next to them a gaggle of slightly taller bottles, capped in a bright blue Kylo recognizes. Sleeping pills. 

And that's the breaking point, the decision moment. Because Hux always slips off after they fuck, finds his way to the fresher. And now Kylo knows why. To suck down a fix for the stims, to fall into artificial stupor at Kylo's side, insensate. And he can't let this go on. He's too wrapped up in it, has to do something, _anything_. Needs to shake Hux by the shoulders, beg him to listen, to look at what's happened to him. 

Kylo takes a deep breath. Hux is probably in the officer's lounge right now, has gotten off his shift and is supposedly taking one of his horribly infrequent breaks. He'll go. He'll go now and solve this once and for all. 

***

When he gets to the lounge, Hux is settled back in an armchair next to Phasma, cigarette clamped between his lips. He doesn't look up when Kylo walks in, and Kylo makes his way carefully across the room, wonders what they're talking about. 

“...You're what?” Phasma sounds astonished. Hux shrugs. 

“Fucking him.” Kylo stops. If Hux is fucking someone else, he'd very much like to know that. 

“But why? Hux, I know you like a little bit of risk in your life, but that just seems absurd.” Phasma laughs a little, leans forward to stare intently at Hux. 

“Why not?” Hux shrugs, gives a desultory wave of his cigarette. “It's not like it _means_ anything, Phasma. We're just fucking. It's not like I care for him.” And Kylo's blood sparks. He can feel the lie through the Force, knows the falsity the moment it falls from Hux's lips. And he can hear Hux's nerves too, the worry that courses across Hux, the hatred that it is in fact a lie. That he cannot say this to Phasma without knowing how wrong he is. 

And that's all well and good. But Kylo came here to help Hux. Came here to pull Hux away from hurt and wrongness, and Hux doesn't even have the good grace to acknowledge their relationship. And why should Kylo help him anyway? Why should he pull Hux from the hell he's made for himself. They're _only fucking_ after all. 

Lie or no, Hux wishes it was true. 

But it isn't. Kylo's woven himself into Hux's life, wrapped himself too tight to ever let go. And he hadn't thought, not till now, of what that gives him. Had only thought of the pleasure, and then, for just a few moments, of the chance to help Hux. 

But now he knows better. 

And he knows what to do. 

***

When Hux wakes in the morning, he gropes for the bottle on the table. It isn't there. He pries his eyes open, light blinding against them. He hasn't imagined it. The bottle is gone. A chuckle comes from his other side. 

“Looking for this, Hux?” It's Kylo, is always Kylo. Hux nods resignedly. Trust Kylo to make this hard, to bother him too early in the morning. He's going to want to have a conversation or something before he forks over the bottle. 

But to Hux's astonishment, Kylo doesn't say anything. No, instead he shakes the bottle over his own palm, spills two pills onto his hand. Then he's capping the bottle. 

“Open up.” And before Hux realizes what he's doing, he's parting his lips. And Kylo's easing his fingers inside, petting a little at Hux's mouth as he feeds him the stims. Hux swallows and Kylo runs a long finger down his throat. 

“That wasn't so hard, was it, Hux?” Hux nods, phantom feeling of Kylo's fingers on his lips still. And they stay there even as he showers, washes his face for the day. 

***

Kylo's arms are wrapped around his stomach in the middle of the day, carefully petting as he positions the patch on his belly. And he kisses softly at Hux's throat as he does it. Whispers in his ear. 

“You're so easy, Hux. Look at this, such a sad little figure you make. What would happen if I didn't let you do this? Would I have to hold your forehead as you got sick, stroke your back through it? Should we try?” Hux shakes his head, shoves an elbow backward vainly. “Oh, you don't like that idea? Hmmm. Well, maybe not today.” 

And he relaxes back into Kylo's arms at that. Not today.

***

“Good boy.” Hux should be frustrated, should hate himself as he kneels at Kylo's feet. But all he can feel is the desperation coursing through him. He needs to be back on the bridge in half an hour, has resisted coming here as long as he could. But he's never made it an entire shift without needing this before, and with Kylo holding the reins it's no different than when he ruined himself alone. 

Kylo strokes his cheek, pulls out a cigarette and sets it against Hux's lips. He's lighting it with a flourish, and Hux's drags smoke into his lungs desperately. 

“Such a good little General. I could make you do anything, you know? Just hold back those pills, keep you away from this, and you'd break, fall apart like shattered glass. Maybe you'd last a day, maybe two. But eventually you'd crawl to me, and do whatever I asked.” He pulls the cigarette away from Hux's lips and Hux can't help but chase after it. Kylo laughs, sound dark in the narrow ready room. 

“Do you want this back, pretty boy?” Hux nods. “Well, for now, you can have it. For now. But I might not be so generous in the future. I might now. Because you need me now. Not just fucking anymore. And I could have you do anything I liked. Anything, Hux.” And he's right, and Hux has no idea how this happened, but all he can do is bow at Kylo's feet and take whatever Kylo deals out. And he shakes, because those are _his words_ , his stupid comment to Phasma, and now, no, they're not just fucking. Now he's opening his lips like a baby bird begging to be fed.

It's all he can do.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to know what happens next? Read [Eleison](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7698880)
> 
> Thanks to [artyaouter](http://artyaourter.tumblr.com/) for all the suggestions/early reading. Also the title. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr a [saltandlimes](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
